The Losing Side
by ShyePiper
Summary: The internationally famous Sherlock Holmes discourages Samantha from renting the cellar flat for all the obvious reasons, the least of which, she was certain to turn his life completely upside down. She was a mystery for him to unravel. Unfortunately, she slaps his hands when he tries. Read & Review, please!
1. Chapter 1

**The Losing Side**

Chapter One: The Blue and Red Dress

An uncommonly sunny midwinter afternoon, Sherlock Holmes bounded the stairs of 221 Baker Street, involved in a heated argument with himself over a case he had yet to solve. Both sides had excellent points and evidence to back it up.

Mrs. Hudson, his landlady for the last five years, called out from her open door before he could reasonably claim to be 'out-of-earshot', "Would you come here for a moment?"

Sighing, he finished tying his scarf and went through the open door of Mrs. Hudson's flat.

"Yes? What is it?" The timbre of his voice was low and his tone impatient.

His landlady, wearing her favorite purple dress and well-worn slippers, was sitting at her kitchen table, tea and simple sweets set out. Directly across from her was a woman, somewhere between the age of twenty four and twenty six, wearing a 60's red and blue plaid double-breasted dress. The decidedly military double-breasted construction did nothing to hide her figure despite its high neckline. The toes of her black boots were worn and scuffed, probably the pair she wore most often. Creamy white skin displayed a fair dusting of tiny freckles over her arms and face. She wore no makeup, but her full lips, big brown eyes and long eyelashes didn't need any embellishment. Thick, dark brown waves of hair, having been manipulated by a curling iron earlier that day, hung down her back. Long fringe framed her face and by the way she tried to blow it away from her eyes when she tilted her head up to look at him, she was seriously considering getting them cut.

"Samantha is thinking about renting the cellar flat," said Mrs. Hudson, smiling broadly. The elderly woman had recently fixed up the aforementioned flat with new wallpaper and carpet; she had spent the last few days showing off to a short list of potential renters.

"She can't afford it," Sherlock said matter-of-factly as he took a red current jam drop biscuit off a white chipped plate for himself.

Samantha's brow lifted. "Excuse me?"

"Sherlock—" Mrs. Hudson tried to intercede.

"Your dress," he spoke to Samantha, pausing briefly to savor the sweet and chewy treat, "has been well taken care of, but it's second hand." He observed the rosy blush of embarrassment appearing on her cheeks. He ignored it and continued. "Speaking of hand, you chew your fingernails," Sherlock took hold of the fingers of Samantha's left hand which had been resting on the wooden table in front of her and ran the pad of his thumb along the jagged, short edges, "which means you either have a nervous disposition or perhaps stress in your personal life or in your line of work."

"Highly paid people typically have stress," Samantha pointed out, crossing her legs and folding her arms.

"That's true." He popped the rest of the biscuit into his mouth, plucked a baby blue tea towel off the table and wiped his hands and mouth. Then he pulled out the unoccupied chair, sat and leaned forward. The way this Samantha leaned away told him she felt her space was being invaded. He took hold of her arm with the same indifference he would show a cadaver. However, her skin wasn't cold; it was warm and as soft and smooth as silk. "But highly paid people generally don't have dried up purple finger paint on their elbow."

Sighing, the young woman eyed the offensive elbow and tried to rub the paint off before giving it up. She removed herself from Sherlock's grasp. "And what does that prove?"

Sherlock smiled. "By itself, nothing." He took a deep breath. "Tempura paint can usually be found in schools, most likely primary." He leaned in and sniffed her, breathing in her different scents and cataloguing them into his brain. She scowled at him. "You're a child-minder and from the smell of it—"

"What smell?" Her eyes narrowed.

"Sherlock! Don't be so rude," Mrs. Hudson scolded and sipped her tea.

"You went from work to home so you could change into fresh clothes for this little interview, but didn't have time for a proper shower so you did a quick blanket bath, missing a spot or two along the way. Underneath the cherry almond fragrance of your soap are the faint hints of baby oil and regurgitated formula. You're a teacher for a daycare; I'd say the one five blocks down—Tell me, are any of the employees there considered 'highly paid'?"

Samantha blinked. "It sounds to me you're making a whole lot of assumptions."

Mrs. Hudson's gaze went from Samantha to Sherlock, waiting for his response.

With his deductions in question, he went in for the kill.

"There's no ring on your finger, so unless you're allergic to metals, you're unmarried. I'd even go as far as to say you don't even have a boyfriend. Judging by the lack of makeup and manicured fingernails, you're not even trying to attract someone. Another possibility is you're a single mum. Your hips do flare out, but not enough to suggest you've ever given birth." Sherlock couldn't help but enjoy the way Samantha's eyes flashed with hints of shock and anger, showing flecks of yellow and amber. "You've been chewing your fingernails because you're new to your job, stilling trying to fit in and please your boss. Doesn't suggest a lot of confidence, does it?" He didn't wait for a reply for the question was rhetorical. "If I were you, I would look in the advertisements for flat mates."

"That's enough from you." Mrs. Hudson got to her feet, awkwardly hindered by her bad hip, and herded him down the hallway, her hand clutching Sherlock's coat sleeve. He went along despite her meager brawn, chuckling. "I'll be fine making up my own mind, thank you very much. Don't make me remind you when you couldn't make rent if it wasn't for your brother footing the bill."

"You're the one that wanted me to say hello," Sherlock justified himself; realizing then he never actually said the word. Shrugging it off, he stepped lightly down 221's stoop, feeling a little satisfied he had discouraged another imminent disaster from happening. He wasn't a good neighbor and it was just as well Samantha Whoevershewas was saved from demonstration.

"Maybe I should put in an advertisement for John's old room," Mrs. Hudson called out from the doorway.

Sherlock turned on his heel, rested his hand on the rod iron railing and peered at his landlady with his head cocked to one side. "Are you threatening me, Mrs. Hudson?"

He actually started to worry when she didn't respond right away.

"Oh, calm down, you git," Mrs. Hudson laughed, a shrill sound. "But, I'm warning you, you'd better start behaving yourself, Mr. Holmes."

Feeling disgruntled, Sherlock turned the collar of his navy coat up, an act of habit more than protection from a cold wind. He took a taxi to Scotland Yard, staring absently outside the window. He observed the out-and-about Londoners. One woman, large in frame and loaded with shopping bags, tripped over her own feet. A man in a well-tailored suit, almost instantly, came to her aid. Sherlock wondered if the woman would see this scene as some sort of meet cute to tell her and this man's imaginary grandchildren.

The cab drove on.

John Watson, Sherlock's short best friend and partner in investigation, was waiting for him in the parking lot, wearing a blue and green jumper of geometrical print he obviously got from his mother.

"You look cheerful," John commented when Sherlock walked past him and headed toward the building's entrance.

"Do I?" Sherlock asked, turning on his heel.

"No." John walked through the front doors of Scotland Yard.

When they reached Gregory Lestrade's office, they found him sitting at his computer holding a cliché jelly-filled donut. He took his feet off the desk upon their arrival.

"Moriarty made another appearance," asked John.

The whole of England had been waiting two weeks now for Mr. James Moriarty to make his move since his 'did you miss me' stunt that monopolized all ways of communication in the country for nearly five hours.

The silver haired man shook his head. "He hasn't made a peep. He just wanted us to know he's back." He paused. "What do you know about Pavel Kashuba," Lastrade asked, his eyes never leaving the screen.

"He's involved in the black market," Sherlock supplied, taking a seat opposite Lastrade. The seat boasted a slight and instantly deflated cushion. "He was running a quite affluent, yet shady, adoption agency. Before he was to be investigated, however, he, his people and the children vanished without a single trace to their whereabouts." He steepled his hands under his chin. "Very impressive, if I do say so myself."

"Missing children, Sherlock," John reminded, pacing.

"Right." Sometimes his admiration of a well thought out crime was mistaken for callous indifference. "Sorry. Go on. Any new leads?"

Lastrade turned his computer screen around to reveal and black and white still of a large, broad-shouldered man entering a café. The person of interest was clean-shaven, dressed casually, had a cleft chin and his long hair was pulled back into a ponytail.

"He's in London," Lastrade said and took a big bite of his donut. Raspberry filling dribbled down the front of his fresh white shirt. He swore and wiped the mess with a torn envelope.

"What's stopping you from making an arrest," asked John.

"He was never convicted." Sherlock sighed. "Why are we here? The only evidence the Russian police were able to find was circumstantial."

"There's been a rash of kidnappings this last six months I can't help but believe he's at the center of it." Lastrade scratched his emerging silver beard, thoughtfully.

"Children are being kidnapped all the time," Sherlock commented, starting to get bored.

"The children's ages range from newborn to two years old." Lastrade turned his screen back around to face him. "Most of the children lawfully put up for adoption are between the ages one to four. Typically, couples want to adopt the babies, but our research tells us there's only a two percent to six percent chance of that happening."

"Babies are notoriously loud; crying and screaming. How is it no one notices they're being taken?" John, the soon-to-be father in the room, leaned against a metal cabinet of drawers and folded his arms.

"I believe you just answered your own question there, John. It's not like there's a distinctive cry that means 'stranger danger'," said Sherlock, looking around Scotland Yard's Head Detective's office. "And even if there was, people are usually too caught up in their own lives to notice. Parents, of course, notice the absence, so the kidnappings would obviously be when they're either being negligent or when their child is being cared for by another." He sniffed the air, a lavender fragrance lingered there. "How's the Mrs.?"

X

"He's right," Samantha admitted, setting down the white teacup upon its white saucer. "I can't afford the rent myself. I just came by because my brother heard you had an opening; I don't know why. He knows as well as anybody I can't—" Sighing, Samantha stood up and grabbed her red wool coat and her old leather, saddlebag-style purse that had been resting on the back of the wooden chair. "It was very nice to meet you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Stay." The landlady's tone offered no room for argument or disobedience. So Samantha sat. After a long moment, Mrs. Hudson asked, "Do you like violin music?"

Samantha said, "Yes, I do. Do you play?"

Mrs. Hudson laughed. "Heavens, no! Sherlock does—a lot. Helps him think, he says."

"My piano is taking up space at my brother's," said Samantha. "He says that one of us has to go."

Nodding, Mrs. Hudson said, "I always loved the piano, but never had the patience to learn."

After an uncomfortable moment of still silence, Samantha said again, "I can't afford what you're asking for."

Mrs. Hudson pursed her lips thoughtfully. "I suppose I could lower it a little."

"Thank you, but I can't let you do that. Besides," Samantha said, smiling, "I don't think living here for free would be worth it if I had to share a roof with Mr. Sherlock Holmes."

"So you've heard about him?" Mrs. Hudson refilled her and Samantha's teacup.

"Of course." There were times when one couldn't watch the news without hearing his name mentioned at least once.

"Well," The landlady held the white teacup in her frail hands, raising it to her lips, "Once you get to know him, he can show some very nice qualities."

"I'm sure." Samantha sipped her tea, uninterested in what qualities those may be.

"Samantha… Would you mind terribly coming over from time to time and visit me?" There was a look of deep loneliness in the sweet landlady's chocolate brown eyes. "Please don't feel obligated—"

"How about meeting for lunch next Saturday?"

The older woman smiled broadly and clapped her hands happily. "Brilliant!"

A short time later, Samantha donned her long woolen, red, hooded coat and said goodbye to Mrs. Hudson. Leaving 221B, she felt the evening's dropped temperature in the breeze that lifted the thick locks off her shoulders. She buttoned her coat and pulled the hood over the top of her head. The smells of bread and freshly brewed coffee wafted around and about her in circles, but feeling quite full still, Samantha could resist Speedy's siren call.

Instead of hailing a taxi, Samantha chose to walk a bit. She loved London, her home for most of her life. Nothing about it had changed drastically, unlike herself.

Her black, laced up boots clipped rhythmically along the sidewalk.

Mrs. Hudson had asked her if she liked violin music. Samantha could have laughed. Several months ago, she made a living performing alongside thirty violinists as the pianist for the Netherlands Symphony Orchestra. When she thought of that life, she could almost feel the heat of the spotlight, the sensations of being in the center of a one-hundred twelve piece orchestra playing in perfect synergy.

She thought of the icy, aquamarine eyes that scrutinized her earlier that day. Sherlock Holmes thought himself very clever, because he was. And oddly beautiful. But, the picture he painted of her with words was as stark and without dimension as a stick figure drawing.

Damn his eyes! Why did she care what that man thought? He didn't know her from Eve, nor was he deserving of any explanations for her choices.

A small group of young men, their voices loud and boisterous, blocked Samantha's path.

One tall, broad-shouldered man whistled crudely while his friends stood there smiling like idiots.

"Excuse me," Samantha stammered, trying to weave past the unmoving men. She clutched the strap of her purse tight, even though she knew it wasn't likely to do her any good if one of these clods actually grabbed it from her.

"Come on, Sexy, give us a smile!"

They all laughed when she ignored them and kept walking, her pace faster than before.

"Don't be scared," she heard another one say right before she felt the hem of her dress lift.

She whipped around and snatched the fabric out of a short and scruffy man's hand. From the odor of him, it could be safely assumed he was quite drunk.

"Leave me alone," Samantha warned him, glad the strength in her voice didn't betray her trembling nerves.

"Why on earth would I want to do something like that?" He grabbed hold of her wrist; he was deceptively strong. When she tried to pull free of his grip, the pain made Samantha gasp as the stranger twisted and bent her hand back. She dropped her purse to the cold concrete. Everything in her purse dropped in value at that moment.

Kicking him in the shin only pissed him off and gave the other four brutes some entertainment. The setting sun cast shadows over their faces.

"Uppity bitch," muttered the man who had whistled at her.

Then, in the time span of a second, Samantha was on the ground, the left side of her face red and stinging from a sudden slap given by the short and scruffy man. She had landed on her injured wrist.

A couple of the men cheered.

One laughed, "Let Rodney have a little fun with you."

Feeling hot breath puff against the back of her neck, Samantha struck out her elbow and slammed into the attacker's eye. While he was still hollering in pain, Samantha turned on her back and kicked the man in the crotch. The look of agony that shook the brute's features was so satisfying Samantha sent the toe of her boot to his groin again. He fell forward and she moved out of the way. Someone strong grabbed her upper arm and pulled her to her feet roughly.

"I like it when they fight back," she heard behind her while she watched the men help their friend up.

"Hey," she heard someone call and turned to see two businessmen run across the street. Her attacker and his band of guilty witnesses took that moment to run away down the street.

People started to gather, having witnessed or heard the commotion.

"Are you alright?"

"Someone call the police!"

"They took her purse!"

Still in a state of fight or flight, Samantha couldn't focus on anyone's face as the good people of London began to close in her damaged personal bubble. She backed away, holding her injured wrist.

"I'm fine," she said, ashamed for the broken sob punctuating her lie. Hot tears, born from relief and pain, spilled down her cheeks and she stumbled on a crack in the sidewalk.

She bowed her head. A single drop of crimson blood fell from her lip when she realized her purse was gone. She couldn't hail a taxi or call for help. Mrs. Hudson's place wasn't too far away, but there was too much of a risk to run into one of the attackers.

"Let me help," said a tall woman in her mid-twenties dressed in jeans and a plain white tee.

Samantha didn't have many options, so she nodded. She sat on the curb of the sidewalk numbly while the kind, well-meaning woman took charge of the situation and called the police. It didn't take long for a police officer Inglenook to show up. He took a few minutes to gather stories from the witnesses before helping Samantha into his car, which smelled like onion rings, to take her in for questioning.

She was dry-eyed now, trying to figure out what was she going to do now. She would need to report her missing items, cancel her credit cards and her phone bill—

The big, blonde policeman took a sideways glance at her. "That wrist looks real bad, Miss. We could stop at the hospital first, if you'd rather."

Actually, her wrist hurt like hell; she could hardly move it at all. But, "Scotland Yard, please. My wrist can wait," she said decidedly.

"You can use my phone to call your family, if you'd like," the officer kindly offered.

Samantha studied the man before wording her reply. His thick blonde hair, brushed straight back, reminded her of a man whom, until not so long ago, she thought the world of. Heinrich Visser, the conductor of the Netherlands Symphony Orchestra, would never choose to be in public wearing such wrinkled clothes, however, he would not have chosen a career in the service of others either.

"Miss?"

"Yes, thank you." Carefully, she took the iPhone in her uninjured hand. It took a couple of seconds to recall the number and several more to listen to a dial tone. A familiar voice reached her ears.

"Hello—"

"Hey, sis, I—"

"—Can't come to the phone right now. Leave your name and number after the beep and I'll get back with you."

Samantha sighed. "This is Sam; I need you to come pick me up at Scotland Yard…" She bit back a pained moan when the car hit a pothole. "I'm okay." She actually was starting to feel, emotional wise, like she could be okay, knowing things could have been a lot worse. She fought back; it was enough for now. Turning to Officer Inglenook, she asked, "Mind if I make a few more calls? I'd like to cancel my credit cards before they drain my account."

"Go ahead," he replied, trusting.

"Thank you."

She was still on the phone, on hold, with the credit card company when the officer held the door of Scotland Yard open for her. When she finally was able to get connected to a live person, the woman on the other end sounded skeptical, but filed her report anyway.

"Can I get you some tea, water or maybe coffee? We have a pop machine." The police officer took off his black jacket and tossed it atop his desk.

Shaking her head, she answered, "No, thank you." Her stomach felt twisted as it was.

There was a pause before Inglenook sat behind his desk. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Now, please, in your own words, tell me about what happened this evening."

She recounted the event the best she could, realizing some of the details were a bit hazy and rushed. Some of the men's faces had been shadowed, but the voices were still sharp and clear in her mind. "There were five of them, a bass, two baritones and two tenors."

"I'd say a bass, two baritones, a tenor and a soprano."

Reluctantly, she turned in her chair to face the man standing straighter-than-an-arrow. "Sherlock Holmes. How long have you been standing there?"

"Only long enough to know I should make my presence known." The corner of his mouth tugged momentarily. "I knew it must be you by that bright blue and red dress of yours," he explained, rocking back on his heels and seemingly so much taller than he was just hours earlier. "You know, there's only a 1.5 to 1,000 chance of being robbed." The look of what could very well be concern crossed his face.

"Lucky me." Her laugh was bitter and came from a scratchy throat. Was this his idea of small talk? She asked him.

The internationally famous and world's only consulting detective blushed.

"Sam!" John appeared suddenly, panting from running across the room, and hunched over her. He gently examined her injured, left wrist. "What happened?"

"She was mugged, obviously." He paused. "You've met Samantha," observed Sherlock.

John didn't take his eyes away from Samantha's injuries. "She's my sister."

Sherlock's mouth gaped with surprise and was silent, but only for a moment before he commented, "You look nothing alike."

It wasn't entirely true. They both had brown eyes, although hers were large and almond-shaped with complimentary colors and his were solid, chocolate brown. Wide grins came from their mother's side. Her brother John towered a good five more inches than her delicate, five foot one frame when they stood back to back. Her sister shared John's hair color and cheeks, or 'jowls', as Harriet would put it.

"I'll take you back to the clinic and fix you right up," said John, decidedly.

Samantha turned to Officer Inglenook, wincing at the added pain sent to her wrist by the movement.

"We can finish this later," he reassured, "and you can give our forensic artist a description of your attacker."

Nodding, Samantha got to her feet, ignoring John's help.

"You should have taken a taxi," her brother scolded on their way to the lift.

Samantha didn't answer for her headache was getting worse.

"You should have told me you had a little sister," Sherlock, in turn, scolded John. With everyone aboard, Sherlock sent the lift down to the lobby. Samantha wished he would just drop the subject.

"Like you told me about Mycroft," John retorted, still holding Samantha's hand like it was a hurt bird. "Can you move it," he then asked Samantha.

"No, not without it hurting." A sudden intake of breath couldn't be helped when Samantha tried to rotate the joint in question.

"Very likely, it's a fracture," John said.

Samantha groaned, hoping he was wrong.

"What's with your family giving the girls boy names, hmm? Harry? Sam?" Sherlock stuffed his hands in his pockets.

John's phone chose that moment to chime out 'Kiss From A Rose'.

"Asked the man named Sherlock," Samantha shot back, exiting the lift and holding her freed wrist close.

"How is it I've known your brother for years and it's not until now I've ever heard about you?" His stare darkened critically. Samantha didn't have an answer, so Sherlock asked, "Where have you been these last few years? You weren't even at your brother's wedding."

"I...," she searched for the words.

"Mary, Mary," John held his phone to his ear and tried to get a word in between his wife's frantic monologue. "She's with us, darling. Stop worrying. I'll patch her up and bring her home." After an automatic 'I love you, bye', he hung up.

The sun had already set when the three of them walked out to John's car. Streetlights looked at their reflections in the mess of puddles scattering the sidewalk and street; it had rained while she had been questioned. Samantha slid onto the spacious backseat, shivering at the sensation of cold leather at the back of her knees. Sherlock claimed the front passenger seat as John got behind the wheel.

"I'll drop you off at your place on the way," her brother told his friend. "Oh! Samantha, how did the interview with Mrs. Hudson go?"

Sherlock turned his head slightly in her direction, waiting for her answer.

Samantha cleared her throat and took her eyes off the detective's Byronic profile. "It didn't work out."

"What did you say," John asked Sherlock accusingly, his brows noticeably furrowed in the rearview mirror.

"It wasn't him," said Samantha. "I can't afford the rent." She looked down at her bruised, swollen wrist, still feeling shocked… or numb… by her attack.

"So I was right!" There was no way to hide the note of victory in the detective's voice.

"It's too bad," John commented, stopping a few moments at an intersection.

"Why," asked both Sherlock and Samantha.

John shrugged and set the vehicle back into motion. "I thought maybe you two would get along."

If looks could kill, Samantha would have shot lasers into the rearview mirror to be reflected into her brother's face. However, with her luck lately, the beam would have shot back at her. Her reflection showed an angry-red split lip. Looking herself over in the dim light, she saw her knees were badly scraped and being given notice, they began to sting and ache. "Was this some kind of set up?"

When John hesitated, Sherlock prompted, "Well?"

Clearing his throat, her brother said, "No, just thought you two should meet. Think of it as introducing a new fish to the tank." Then, under his breath, he muttered not quiet enough, "Worst thing that'd happen is one of you'd eat the other."


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two: A Reluctant Smile

Expected, Sherlock opened the Watson's front door and let himself in. His entrance, however, became an obstacle course made up of brown boxes of various sizes. A Fuchs & Mohr upright piano made of light mahogany and graced with a light coat of dust locked easy passage to the rest of the house. It must be Samantha's, he concluded, for he knew neither John nor Mary were musically inclined and John overestimated his unfortunate talent on the clarinet. A baby car seat, covered in a ladybug print, rested atop the instrument whilst its matching pushchair stood further down the walnut-floored hall. The smell of burnt bacon told Sherlock the small family was either having breakfast or only recently finished.

"We're in here," Mary called out from the living room.

He squeezed past the piano, through the large archway on the left and into the cozy den, a white and beige room accented with hints of blues and greens, to be greeted by the sight of a very pregnant Mary sitting cross-legged on a blue oriental rug next to John and a mess Sherlock presumed came out of a white box displaying a picture of a white, round crib. Mary was folding a basket of baby clothes, a variety of bright colors thrown in with white onesies, socks and other sorts of things in the mix.

Poor John didn't even look up; he just stared at the unassembled mass, red faced and silent with crumpled instructions in hand.

"It just hit them their baby is due in one week."

It was then Sherlock noticed Samantha draped over a white couch like the Queen of the Nile herself, except for her roomy, orange cotton nightie with buttons down the front and a green paisley border at the bottom, with her casted left arm propped on a large pillow. Morning sunlight streamed in through the large picture window, setting off the multitude of highlights to be found in Samantha's hair and eyes. Her feet and legs were bare. She hurried to fix that, tucking her feet under her and pulling the nightgown down to cover up her legs, only to reveal a hint of cleavage given by the top open button.

"How are you…, Sam?" He felt inclined to ask; her nickname feeling odd to his mouth.

"Just fine, thank you." Her tired eyes spoke otherwise and her bottom lip was badly bruised. "But, please, call me Samantha."

He nodded, noting she probably didn't feel they knew each other well enough for nicknames. It was understandable, he supposed, although came across as old-fashioned and a bit toffee-nosed.

About to point that out, he was interrupted when John shouted, "I can't make sense of this lousy piece of shit!" He tossed the pamphlet of instructions behind him and got to his feet.

Sherlock picked up the offensive piece of literature and opened it, studying the diagram and step by step directions. Shrugging, he said, "It's not sequenced correctly. Otherwise, doesn't look too difficult."

Mary laughed, a relieved sound. "Oh, good. If that's the case, John and I can start putting on the wall decals and hanging up curtains while you set up the crib." After a feeble attempt to get up off the floor, she asked for help, uncomfortable and a bit out of breath.

"Actually, I came to talk to John about the Kashuba case," said Sherlock.

"Any day now, I'm going to become a dad," John said, helping his wife get to her feet with Sherlock's assistance. His voice sounded strained. "This house isn't ready for a newborn."

"You've had nine months to do that," Sherlock pointed out. "Lestrade will be here soon to talk about—"

John sighed loudly. "We'll talk then. Right now, however, you can sit, make yourself useful and put together this damn cradle."

"Crib," Sherlock corrected. "Do you have a cradle ready? I understand newborns prefer those because it supposedly reminds them of the womb. Although, the co-sleeper cribs seem the most logical if Mary is planning on breastfee—"

"You don't get to talk about my wife's breasts, Sherlock."

Sherlock shrugged. "There's been a new development concerning the black market babies."

Back before anyone noticed her absence, Mary descended the two steps from the kitchen with three different parcels in her arms. "You two can go play when the work is done. Sam, tell Sherlock if you need anything. We'll be in the nursery."

"Mhm," was Samantha's reply, being totally engrossed with whatever she was doing on her IPad. Mary was already herding John down the hall.

"Need anything," Sherlock asked. He'd never really played the nursemaid before, well, except for when he was eight year old and Redbeard started to get sick.

"Nope." A dimple showed itself at the corner of her mouth. She didn't look up.

"Good." Gingerly, he sat down on the floor and started spreading out the tools and each piece of the crib out so they could be easily found, tossing the packaging off to the side. Taking the manual in hand, he read aloud, "Locate the two halves of the crib base, each a semi-circle. Line up the fourth peg on one with the fourth slot on the other. Fit them together. Rotate the two semi-circles so the other locking pegs align with the other slots on the opposing section." After finishing the tasks, he heard an audible sigh come from the direction of the couch. "What?"

"Do you really have to do that," Samantha asked.

"Helps me think," said Sherlock.

Samantha lowered her tablet. "Here I was, making the assumption thinking was your forte."

"What are you doing," he asked, not taking the bait.

"Trying to read," she replied exasperated.

"Tragically, illiteracy affects one in five adults," he informed.

"Shut up." She tried to sound admonishing, but Sherlock saw a reluctant smile play across her lips.

Last night, John had referred to his sister as a 'new fish'. Sherlock's brother Mycroft would have appreciated the analogy, more than once calling the commonwealth 'goldfish'. Sherlock wondered what kind of fish Samantha was. Either way, their tank had one more and Sherlock had a feeling she was here to stay. There was tension between brother and sister. Sherlock could feel it last night when Samantha spoke very little to John, but didn't know the what or why of it yet.

He took off his coat and scarf, leaving them on the floor in a heap, and continued reading, "Insert each of the four casters into the four caster sockets. Insert the sockets into the bottom opening on each of the crib legs and tap the casters lightly to secure them in the legs." He soon realized the damned things need more than a light tap and used the heel of his hand to hammer them in, only to be pinched when the last was secure. He swore under his breath.

Samantha was up. "You're bleeding," she said, stating the obvious. "I'll get you a plaster."

"No." Sherlock stood and followed her into the kitchen. "You need to rest."

"I need to keep my wrist elevated," she clarified, holding her injury up over her head. Her right, safe and intact arm reached for the first aid kit above the refrigerator.

"I can take care of myself," Sherlock said, snatching the kit before her grasp.

"Sam, Mum wants to talk," said John upon entering the kitchen, holding out his phone to his sister.

She shook her head, smiling a half smile that didn't reach her eyes—a sign of contempt.

"Why?" John had a sparkly silver thread hanging off his red plaid shirt. It would probably stay there until Mary noticed it.

Samantha directed a look toward Sherlock, who started tending to his blood blister. "I'm not going to get into it right now," she whispered.

More information she deemed he wasn't privy to know, he summed up.

John sighed as he returned the phone to his ear. "She's asleep, Mum. Yeah… yeah… yeah, I'll tell her to give you a call when she wakes up. Ok… We're looking forward to seeing you. Love you, too… Bye." He hung up. Pointing to his sister, he said, "This is the last time I'm doing that. Later, you're going to tell me why you're avoiding our mother."

The sound of knocking came from the front door.

"I'll get it," Samantha volunteered, her arm still raised.

"No, you won't, you're going back to the couch to rest," said John before adding, "You shouldn't be on your feet either, Mary."

Mary glared at her husband before waddling back to the living room, her hands bracing the small of her back. "Yeah, well, I trusted your judgment before you suggested naming our daughter Thomasina."

"Open the door, John," Lestrade's voice was heard.

Sherlock was the one who let the chief inspector inside. "I tried to give him some warning of what was going on," he explained, "but he has other things on his mind."

They squeezed past the boxes and piano.

"These are the kind of days I hate my job," Lestrade said, hesitant to enter the living room. "How is Samantha?"

"She hasn't complained. From the look of her eyes, I would say she didn't get much sleep though and is taking the minimal amount of painkillers—wait—you knew he had a younger sister," said Sherlock; it was a rhetorical question, but he couldn't help but feel left out of the loop.

Lestrade pointed toward a small picture hanging in the hall showcasing a young John Watson, maybe twelve years old, and his older sister Harriet, three years older and face fraught with spots, holding a chubby baby girl, not much over a year old, with thick brown hair and a drooling grin. "He wasn't exactly keeping her a secret."

Admittedly, Sherlock had not spent a lot of time in John and Mary's flat, always seeing it as a place for the couple only. If they wanted to see him, they certainly knew where he lived. If he wanted to see them, he had their numbers on speed dial.

Sherlock knew John hadn't been close with his family, but since the day John thought his friend had died, he evidently took the effort to reconnect. He had only met John's sister Harriet three times in total, had the job of keeping the champagne flutes out of her hand for parts of the reception. The elder Mr. and Mrs. Watson were nice enough for the single time he met them. For liars, at least.

Samantha was featured in other photographs throughout her years, the most recent one showing her alone sitting at a baby grand piano. Her eyes were closed in deep concentration and her mouth open slightly, maybe singing. Long, artistic and manicured fingers were posed over the ivories, delivering chords Sherlock could hear in his mind.

"Stop fussing over me, please," Mary's voice brought him around.

John was helping both his sister and wife get situated, one on the couch and the other on an overstuffed chair with her swollen feet propped with an ottoman, when Lestrade greeted everyone.

"Hello, Greg," Samantha said. "What brings you here?"

"I need to talk with you about last night," said Lestrade, taking a seat at the end of the couch by her feet.

"It better be that you've caught the thieving bastards," Mary said a bit breathlessly, rubbing her round belly.

"The officer I talked to last night said I was to give a description of my attacker to a forensic artist," Samantha said, still trying to get comfortable. The pain she was feeling showed on her face, but she said nothing about it.

"I'm going to cut to the chase here," Lestrade paused and wrung his hand, clearly taking time to choose his words with care. "Last night, around six o'clock, there was a kidnapping at Miss Muffet Day Care."

Samantha gasped, but remained speechless.

Lestrade continued, "Declan Goody was taken by a man claiming to be his father. Thirty minutes later when the boy's parents showed up—"

"Oh, that poor family… he's only two months old," cried Samantha and stood up. Her hand covered her mouth and she closed her eyes. She trembled. "It doesn't make any sense," she said, opening her eyes. They were wet and shining. "All the employees are introduced to the children's parents. There isn't room for an error like that."

"Sounds like an inside job," John said, folding his arms over his chest, and asked Lestrade, "Any ideas who did it?"

Sherlock stepped forward. "Samantha, you're on a list of persons of interest."

Samantha stepped back, her mouth forming a perfect 'o'. She looked from Sherlock to Lestrade, surprise showing on her face. "I left work early yesterday, came home to change—Mary can verify—and then I went to 221B for an interview with Mrs. Hudson there."

"What time was that," asked Lestrade.

Samantha shrugged. "I didn't look at my watch. The sun was setting."

"I looked at your report," said Lestrade. "You were… attacked… only a block away from your place of work right about the time the kidnapping occurred." Her testimony of events were in question.

"A horrible coincidence," Mary judged.

"Oh, come on, you know those aren't real," said Sherlock, shaking his head. Why couldn't they get it?

"You think I did it," Samantha accused him, her voice soft.

"I didn't say that—".

"You've got a good alibi," admitted Lestrade. "But, right now, Scotland Yard is seeing your attack as a ruse to distract from what was really going on."

"Her fractured wrist surely wasn't faked," said John, looking at the chief inspector, and clenched his jaw. "I can show you the x-rays if you like."

Lestrade nodded. "I would, but with the conflict of interest, it'd be better if a doctor of our choosing did them."

Wiping away a tear rolling down her cheek, Samantha asked, "Why would I kidnap a child? You can search this house; you'll not find one. It's not like I have a place for one," she gestured toward the couch. "I certainly wouldn't aid someone in doing so, either."

"Nobody is accusing you," said Sherlock. "You're not a suspect. The employee who gave the child to the kidnapper has been taken into custody and awaits trial."

"Is that supposed to make me feel better," asked Samantha, incredulous.

"It is, actually," said Sherlock. "Did any of the men from last night have foreign accents?"

"No." Samantha moved her neck from one side to the other, trying to relieve the tension felt gather there. The stack of folded bedding atop the couch implicated an unsuccessful night of rest. "What now?" Samantha ran a hand through her thick brown locks.

"The police are just going to keep an eye on you until this matter clears up," Sherlock explained.

"Actually," Lestrade stood up, "you, Sherlock, are going to keep close to Miss Watson until further notice, until we're sure she isn't an accomplice."

She didn't look thrilled by the prospect. "Okay." She scratched her nose. "I'll be ready in a minute."

"Ready for what," Sherlock asked.

"Oh, our lovely, fun filled day," she said sarcastically and headed toward the mess of boxes, "of clearing my name." She pulled a navy duffle bag from behind a large box, plopped it on top of another box and began unzipping the piece of luggage. "We have a lot to do; getting new x-rays, going to Scotland Yard and getting a new phone. I've already applied for a new driving license."

"No. Today, you're going to rest," said John, using a commanding big-brother tone Sherlock associated with Mycroft.

"Need help?" Mary asked but made no move.

"Nope." Samantha flipped open the lid and rummaged through its contents to, in the end, pull out something grey, something pink, white knickers and a lacy white bra. She ignored John's advice to rest.

When she disappeared down the hall, Lestrade said, "I'm sorry, John."

"Samantha's the one you're going to be apologizing to when this is over," said John, his voice steady.

Spilling out from the open navy duffle bag was a pair of black and white floral tights. Sherlock found himself staring at them, the roses, thorns and buds in the print. A memory slowly came out of the fog and into the light. He remembered her. Samantha. Her hair had been shorter then, but Sherlock saw her standing by John at his graveside services. She was the only one there he didn't recognize, had thought she had come with John as a new girlfriend. They had held hands and she stood out even in the customary black. She had cried, though Sherlock knew those tears were most likely for her brother's loss. Samantha had worn those tights to his funeral, Sherlock remembered now.

"I guess I'll be going," Lestrade said, obviously feeling awkward and unwelcome. He stood. "I'll be in touch."

John nodded. When the chief investigator left, John said, "Can you believe he thinks I faked Sam's x-rays?"

Mary rolled her eyes. "He didn't say that. He's just covering his ass."

"You're being awfully quiet," John said to Sherlock, sitting on the armrest of Mary's chair.

"Don't crowd me, dear," said Mary, lightly pushing her husband away.

"Your sister and mother don't have a close relationship, do they," said Sherlock. "Mothers and daughters typically don't, but your sister has contempt for your mother. Contempt is a mixture of the primary emotions disgust and anger." He paused, noting the shared glance passed between husband and wife. Moving on he asked, "How long has she been living in Holland?"

"How do you do that," Mary marveled, shaking her head.

"Five years," John answered.

Sherlock nodded. "She's adopted a bit of the accent." He picked up his scarf off the floor and looped it around his neck.

"She was going to stay with Harry," Mary volunteered, "but they've had a row."

"I'm worried about her," John admitted. "Samantha won't take Mum's or Dad's calls, she's fighting with her sister, she hasn't reconnected with old friends and she's living on my sofa!"

"And we're happy to have her here," Mary spoke louder for her sister-in-law's benefit, who was in the hall again. Samantha wore a short sleeved gray tee with a pink square-necked frock over it, her black boots on her feet.

She put her left arm into a dark blue sling, her movements awkward but independent. "I'll be out of your way as soon as I can." Forcibly, she opened a large brown box and pulled out a large patchwork handbag, took a quick look through it, brought it over her right shoulder and turned to face Sherlock. Closing the distance, she picked up his large, navy coat and handed it to him.

Their fingers touched. It was brief, but her soft skin and delicate, long fingers didn't go unnoticed.

Sherlock cleared his throat as he put on his coat. "Let's go."

"What about the crib," asked Mary.

X

Once in the cab, Samantha closed her eyes and rested her head back, tired but glad her appointment at the hospital was over. The air inside the vehicle was warm and a welcome contrast to the cold outside. Shrugging off her black jacket, she set the garment across her lap. Her arm in a new cast, it was determined that Dr. Watson's assessment was sound and were wrist was indeed broken. However, she was still being treated like a suspect for Dr. Byrne only talked to Officer Inglenook and another policeman in hushed tones she couldn't hear.

"How did you break it," Sherlock asked as he climbed in beside her and slammed the door shut.

Samantha opened her eyes and looked at Sherlock, confused. "I landed on it."

His mouth straightened, he was annoyed. "Not this time. Your wrist just recently healed from a break. How did it break last time?"

"Who said it had already been broken," she asked, crossing one leg over the other.

"Nobody. You were still favoring it yesterday when we met," said Sherlock.

Samantha snorted. "I was not."

Sherlock sighed. "Fine. I overheard Dr. Byrne say your wrist looks like it had been mending from a different break." He paused. "Well?"

Choosing her words carefully, she replied, "My wrist broke much the same way it did this time."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "Meaning you were attacked?"

"Meaning I fell on it." Samantha cringed. She didn't want to talk, especially about this.

The consulting detective looked doubtful and said, "You know, you never answered my question from last night."

The cabby took a sharp left right turn, sending the unprepared Samantha nearly into Sherlock's lap. She braced a hand against his knee to right herself and was quick to remove it just as quickly and slide further away, closer to the window. She felt warmth blossom through her cheeks. He, however, looked unaffected. Taking a deep breath, which turned into a yawn, she looked outside to avoid his eyes, her own not focusing on anything in particular.

It was awhile before Sherlock said, "I asked you why you weren't at your brother's wedding."

Thinking back on last night, Samantha said, "As I recall, you phrased it as a statement." Sherlock remained quiet. "I was on tour with the Netherland Symphony Orchestra."

"Your parents must have been so proud to have a lawyer, a doctor and a successful pianist in the family," Sherlock surmised. "Why did you quit to become a child-minder? You haven't told your parents. That much is obvious. Is that why you're avoiding them? No, you're upset with them. I can tell by your forehead."

Samantha turned to face him, her dark eyes meeting his light ones like opposite ends of the spectrum. "Don't dig up bones that aren't yours, Mr. Holmes. I understand why you feel you have to interrogate me; I even understand why you might be curious or just making conversation, but Greg only gave you the job of keeping an eye on me."

"Shall I invest in a crate to put you in, Watson?" He actually smiled saying her surname.

"Well, we are headed to Scotland Yard."

"Would a cot in a cold cell be preferable to your brother's sofa?" Sherlock asked, "Would it make it easier for you to sleep at night?"

Chuckling mirthlessly, Samantha said, "You already see me as guilty, don't you?"

"Was it only yesterday you accused me of making assumptions?" He paused. "Actually, I am making observations and gathering information; information you seem determined to keep for yourself." The cab sided up to the curb and Sherlock paid the fare. He walked round the vehicle and opened her door.

Stepping out, she declined in taking his offered hand and walked into Scotland Yard alone, Sherlock trailing not far behind. The sun was out and bright, but the wind carried a chill. Samantha, not bothering to put her jacket back on, said, "I've given you everything that is relevant."

When they entered the lift, she heard him say, "Oh, I think we both know that's not true."

Samantha yawned and the rest of the ride up was made in total silence.

A tall, thin woman with dark, curly hair and mocha-colored skin called Sergeant Donovan directed Samantha to a small cubicle belonging to Officer Jana Wick, a middle aged lady with a severely tight bun atop her head.

"Have a seat, dear," Officer Wick said to Samantha. "Can I get a quick cuppa before we get started?"

Sherlock, his coat collar up now, took a brown cushioned swivel chair from an empty nearby cubicle and pushed it in Samantha's direction.

Sitting down on the procured perch, Samantha answered, "That would be lovely, thank you." She kept her handbag and jacket in her lap.

"I'll be right back, Miss," said Wick, smiling a kind smile as she left.

"You can find me in Inspector Lastrade's office when you're done," said Sherlock as he walked past, the wool of his coat brushing against her skin.

"You'll have to excuse me, as well," said Sergeant Donovan, heading the other way.

Samantha watched Sherlock and his long strides cross the room and into an open door. It was promptly shut behind him. She wondered if he would try to interrogate her again. Probably, she thought, or he may give up trying to get answers from her and search elsewhere to discover her personal affairs. There wasn't much she could do to stop that from happening, but she certainly wasn't going to tell him the deep, dark secrets she couldn't even discuss with her family yet.

Maybe she was worrying for nothing and Sherlock would see her and her former life as boring. She had followed her brother's blog and the famous detective's episodes of boredom were as well-documented as the actual investigations.

"I managed to find a couple of biscuits," said Officer Wick, breaking up Samantha's thoughts as she put a mint green tea cup and saucer, the sweets nestled on the side, on Samantha's side of the desk.

"Thank you." Grateful, she took the hot brew and blew on the steaming liquid before taking a careful sip.

"How are you," asked the officer, taking a seat behind her desk.

"I'm well, thanks," said Samantha, though she did not feel it; she was exhausted and her wrist hurt like the devil.

Officer Wick sat down, letting out a loud sigh as she did so. "Alright," she said, opening a large drawer and pulling out a sketch pad, a pencil and an eraser. "To your best ability, please describe the man who attacked you last night and the men with him." She set her supplies on her desk.

"The men called him Rodney," Samantha said, setting down her teacup on its saucer. "He wasn't much taller than me, maybe a few inches, but solidly built."

"What shape would you describe his face?"

"He had a pointy chin with a patchy, uneven beard," said Samantha, "and a wide forehead with a mole over his right eyebrow."

Nodding, Officer Wick made quick strokes with her pencil. "What did his eyes look like?"

Just then Officer Inglenook appeared in Samantha's line of sight, taking off his coat and throwing it over the back of his desk chair. Again, Samantha was struck by his resemblance to Heinrich Visser, same thick blond hair, same broad shoulders and the same blue eyes. Samantha wondered if she would ever forget him, to live without the haunting of those memories.

"Miss?" Wick's voice was kind and patient.

Samantha blinked. "Sorry. Could you repeat the question?"

"What did his eyes look like?"

"Bl—brown," answered Samantha, trying to come back to the present. "His eyes were small, sort of sunken in and he had thick eyebrows."

The female officer took a few moments on her sketch.

Inglenook strode down to talk to Sergeant Donavan, a playful smile on his lips.

It was a smile similar to the one that won Samantha's heart. Lips once kind and loving turned cruel. Eyes once sparkling with a sharp mind and quick wit dulled, dark and unseeing. Heinrich's transformation had been slow and calculated. She could still see his hand rise when he first hit her and the pure terror breaking her heart. Samantha could still feel those harsh, thin lip when he kissed her the last time. It was a kiss meant to punish, shame and hurt. She trembled, remembering him biting her lip and scraping his teeth against hers.

Moisture gathered in her eyes.

"I know it's difficult, Ms. Watson. Take your time," said Wick, giving a reassuring smile. She was leaned back in her seat like she was ready for more information.

Feeling like her past and her present switched places in her brain, Samantha closed her eyes to focus on her attacker from last night, feeling a couple of hot tears run down her cheeks. "Uh… His lips were uneven… a little fuller on the… upper left side. His hair was a light brown, almost blond, and it was cut very short and thin."

She opened her eyes, relieved not to see Inglenook. Not so distracted, she could answer the officer's questions and give the few details she could remember of the attacker's companions.

The sight of Sherlock caught her attention, his hands in his pockets, was headed straight for her and looking none too happy, his mouth making a straight line. "Are you finished," he asked before reaching her.

"What's wrong," asked Samantha.

"I'll tell you later," said Sherlock. He took one of Samantha's untouched biscuits and popped it into his mouth. "Are you finished?"

"Um…" Unsure, Samantha looked to Officer Wick.

"I believe so," answered Wick. "The descriptions she gave me will be very helpful." The older woman added, "She need some rest. Take her home and make sure she gets some."

Sherlock made no comment.

"Thank you for your time," said Samantha, coming to her feet and shaking the other woman's hand.

Officer Wick smiled. "Take care, Miss Watson."

Sherlock took Samantha's handbag and helped her into her coat, even buttoning the top so it would stay on. His hand, momentarily, was on the small of her back as he escorted her to the lift and again as they exited the building. Though she was bothered by the personal gesture, the firm guidance from his hand, she chose to ignore it for Sherlock likely didn't see what could be wrong with it.

"What's wrong?" Samantha asked again.

Sherlock removed his hand from her back suddenly. "I'm off the case."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three: Lacerations

"Do you really think it's necessary for me to be Watson's keeper," asked Sherlock, stepping into Chief Inspector Lastrade's office. The prematurely grayed man was looking out the window, his hands in his pockets; he wore the same outfit he did yesterday, except for a clean shirt. Obviously, he hadn't gone home last night. He didn't turn around. Sherlock stood beside him, taking in the sights of the city below busily going about the day, and said, "Samantha is unlikely as a flight risk. If she had anywhere else to go, I don't think she'd choose her brother's sofa to stay." Lastrade remained silent. "There's been no signs she was involved in the kidnapping. She's tough, she's secretive, but—"

"You're right, Sherlock. It's unnecessary for you to be watching over Samantha Watson. Your skills will be more useful elsewhere." The air already thick with the smell of past cigarettes, Lastrade took a pack out of his coat pocket and offered Sherlock one, which he took. Taking one for himself, he said, "Donavan can keep a respectful eye on her."

Waiting until his cigarette was lit and he'd savored the first drag and breathed out the curling smoke, Sherlock said, "I said Samantha was tough, not indestructable." Taking the seat behind Lastrade's desk because it was the more comfortable option, Sherlock absently scanned the mess of papers and such scattered across it. He looked back to the computer screen and spied WATSON, SAMANTHA K., typed big and bold over an unseen window's tab. A background check. His curious nature had his fingers twitching.

"Sally will keep a distance," Lestrade smiled, then brought the cigarette to his lips. "She's not so bad, you know. She's slower to pass judgment since you faked your death. I think she felt responsible."

"Donavan has a high opinion of herself." Sherlock paused. "I'll start the field work for the Kashuba case immediately after I take Watson home."

"Are you sure you want to be on this case," asked Lestrade. "You aren't really good with babies, are ya?"

It was true; Sherlock Holmes had very little to do with babies since he was four and his younger brother Sherrinford was a newborn.

"I doubt those particular domestic skills will be needed to solve this one," retorted Sherlock, taking in another breath of smoke. "It's not as if I'll be changing nappies and singing lullabies."

"Yeah, but murder is more of your cup of tea, isn't it?"

"Lastrade, what are you trying to make me do," Sherlock asked, annoyed at his friend trying to direct his thoughts and doing such a bad job of it, too.

Sighing, the older man flicked his cigarette over a maroon ashtray and moved to the far side of the room. "I'm taking you off the Kashuba case and the Goody kidnapping."

"Why?"

"Because you're too close," Lestrade answered. "You want to believe the best of the people you're close to—"

"Samantha and I are not close."

"—but you've proven to be unpredictable when your friends are in danger."

"I only met her yesterday," Sherlock pointed out.

"She's John's sister," said Lestrade. "Are you telling me you wouldn't take drastic action to protect her, even from the law?"

After a moment of thought, he said, "Absolutely." Sherlock had no reason to say otherwise. Samantha appeared to be a nice enough girl, but a girl with secrets nonetheless and that alone could be dangerous. "Being John's sister doesn't earn her any special consideration."

"I'm sorry, Sherlock. My mind is already made up," Lestrade returned to his window. "I'm sure a new case will come up soon."

"No doubt," said Sherlock annoyed, leaning back in the uncomfortable office chair and swiveling idly from side to side. "I'm sure you'll need my help… soon." He smiled humorlessly.

Sally Donavan, without a knock to herald her arrival, stepped into the silent office armed with her usual stiff white shirt and bristling demeanor. "The press is waiting."

"Hello, Sally," Sherlock greeted.

Sergeant Donavan crossed her arms, a defensive gesture. "You can tell John we'll take care of his baby sister," said Sally.

"I'll be right in, thanks," answered Lestrade. He ground his cigarette into the ashtray and Donavan promptly left the room, without the expected mumblings of 'freak'. "I'll keep Samantha out of it when I talk to them, so she won't have to worry on that score." When Sherlock remained silent, Lestrade added, "Moriarty is going to make his next move real soon. I can feel it."

"Yes, that should be fun," Sherlock stood and took one last drag of his cigarette before he too snuffed it out into the ashtray.

Shaking his head, Lestrade ran a hand through his hair and left, clearly expecting Sherlock to be exiting his office close behind him.

Instead, Sherlock took the few seconds allotted and opened the WATSON, SAMANTHA K file. The first thing he saw was a copy of her driving license. He scrolled down the page. There, he saw several images of a woman so beaten and bruised there was barely a resemblance to the Samantha he had met just a day ago. Lacerations along her hair line were created not by the slashing of a knife but the repeated, blunt force of a solid object.

Before him were pictures of a victim, not the stubborn, standing hazard she'd proved to be since their meeting.

'What mess did you get yourself into, Watson?'

Sherlock turned the page to read a none-too-descriptive police report written in German, events categorized as a domestic dispute which victim was admitted to the hospital with multiple lacerations and her left wrist both broken and badly cut. Charges were not pressed despite legal counsel.

Slowly, he closed the file, downloading this new information.

Did John know about this, he wondered. Doubtful.

He exited Lestrade's office without notice, almost. Pale and with wet eyes, Samantha watched him come closer. Obviously, Officer Wick had Samantha relive her recent attack and the toll was showing. His eyes zeroed in on her bruised, split bottom lip and the image of her cheek swollen, black and blue flashed in his mind.

"Are you finished," he asked, a moment before reaching her.

"What's wrong," she asked.

"I'll tell you later." He helped himself to a biscuit, a dry, crumbly biscuit Samantha was right to leave untouched. Since it was all he had eaten that day, he swallowed the awful lump. He repeated, "Are you finished?"

"Um…" She turned to Officer Wick for that answer.

"I believe so," said Officer Wick, a clever enough middle-aged bird if not for her obvious denial regarding her sister and husband's 'close friendship'. "The descriptions she gave me will be very helpful. She'll need some rest. Take her home and make sure she gets some."

The probability of anyone a part of the John Watson household getting a wink of sleep was slim, especially if one were exiled to the sofa, had a broken wrist and an obviously troubled past… and present. It was clear his friend had no room for Samantha in his home.

Standing, Samantha shook the officer's hand and said, "Thank you for your time."

"Take care, Miss Watson," said Officer Wick, who hadn't bothered to get up.

Samantha struggled getting her coat on for the cast was a touch big for the sleeve. Not willing to wait for her to accomplish the simple task on her own, Sherlock took the pink patchwork handbag out of her hands, slung it over his shoulder and jerked the wool garment up Samantha's arms and over her shoulders, buttoning the top button to keep the cursed thing on her.

Looking into her eyes, he was again struck by the knowledge this woman was his best friend's sister. She had brown eyes, like John, but it wasn't the same brown.

Physically, Sherlock directed Samantha toward the lift, his hand on the small of her back to prompt her to keep up with his quick walking pace. It only took a raised eyebrow from Samantha's reflection in the chrome walls of the small cubicle to remind England's greatest detective such a gesture was considered inappropriate. The trip to the lobby was made in silence.

When they left the front doors of Scotland Yard behind them, Sherlock's hand inadvertently returned to Samantha's back. She turned to face him, forcing his hand to slide to her hip.

"What's wrong," she asked.

As if burned, Sherlock took his hand off her. What was wrong with him? He took a step back, ready to apologize for making her feel uncomfortable when two things occurred to him. Her question was 'what was wrong', a question she had asked before, not what was wrong with him. It was a rare occasion he cared if someone was feeling uncomfortable, even rarer to apologize for it.

"I'm off the case," he said, irritation in his tone as he hailed a cab.

"Mine?" A chilled gust disturbed briefly Samantha's overgrown fringe to reveal a crinkled brow and thin, silver scars along her hairline. "Why?"

Opening the door to the back of the black, generic cab, Sherlock climbed in and said, "Lestrade is under the impression I'll succumb to sentiment if you were to be, improbable as it were, prosecuted."

Samantha nearly smiled, hindered by her split lip, as she took her place next to him. "I don't think you're in any danger of that happening."

"Because you're innocent?"

"Yeah," she said, slamming the passenger door shut with a grimace. "Where do you want to eat?" She adjusted and smoothed her grey dress which had tightened across her lap and bunched under her.

"I don't eat while I'm on a case," Sherlock informed. "Digestion slows me down."

"You just said Greg let you go," reminded Samantha, finally taking back her handbag Sherlock forgot he was still holding.

The faceless cabby sighed, impatient. "What's it to be, hmm?"

"Even machines need fuel," Samantha quipped. She gave the cabby the address for a small restaurant famous for its fish and chips, infamous for its poor location—a cellar pub set just on the inside of London. When the taxi jerked into motion, she asked, "What? No argument?"

Sherlock shrugged. "A clever man never stands between a Watson and food."

Her gaze dropped to her boots and she made an accepting grunt.

The restaurant, imaginatively called The Cellar, was a surprisingly popular spot for lunch and that day was no exception. A large party of gregarious, classic literature book club members, judging by the fact each one carried out a different copy of Alexandre Dumas' 'The Forty-Five Guardsmen Vol. I', so Sherlock and Samantha were seated after only a reasonable delay. The tantalizing smell of chips just out of bubbling oil caused Sherlock's stomach to give an interested growl. Their waiter was a spot-ridden, twenty year old son of a prestigious family who was trying to prove to himself and the female pouring drinks behind the bar he was not, by any means, posh. The designer trousers, with perfectly straight creases down the front and back of the legs, was a dead giveaway. He dropped the menus on the wood floor while ogling the blonde bartender, made a weak apology and clumsily fixed the mistake, the third attempt doing the trick. The young man slumped away, leaving the threat of his return to take their order.

Samantha one-handedly struggled out of her coat and slung it over the back of her chair. "It feels like forever since I've had some good, English fish and chips."

"I know the feeling," said Sherlock, recalling his two years away from home and all the things that made him feel homesick, food being the more surprising one.

Scratching just inside her cast, Samantha twisted around in her chair, searching for the lovelorn server.

Her behavior, appearing normal to anybody who didn't know any better, struck Sherlock as odd. He would never claim to be an expert on women, emotion or appropriate reaction, but wasn't Samantha supposed to be locked up in a dark room, swaddled in an oversized jumper, crying her eyes out? Sherlock wondered how Samantha could act so nonchalant just a day after being attacked on the street.

He leaned back while she tried to involve him in small talk. What did he think of the name Prue? Was Mary seriously considering saddling a loved one with such a saccharine moniker?

The waiter made good on his threat. "What can I get for you two?" He gave Samantha a nervous smile.

Samantha smiled back warmly. "I would love your fish and chips."

"And for you, sir?" The waiter asked Sherlock.

"Tea." Sherlock loosened his scarf and put it over the back of their table's unoccupied chair; his Belstaf followed.

"He'll have the fish and chips as well," said Samantha, apparently confident Sherlock would eat if the food was in front of him. His mother had the same false assumptions for most of his childhood, finally giving up after telling him he couldn't leave the table until he finished the baked cucumbers and pink turnips on his plate. He fell asleep and was carried to his bed, winning the four hour standoff.

"Very good, ma'am," said the waiter before heading back to the kitchen.

Samantha sighed. "I wonder if John has figured out the crib yet."

"I was wondering about those scars on your forehead," said Sherlock, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table, his fingers forming a steeple. "How did you get them?"

Samantha looked away, silent.

Sherlock waited.

Her eyes, shining brown orbs ready to destroy, met his. She said nothing.

"Has John noticed?" Sherlock continued, pushing the issue. "Of course, he hasn't. That man hasn't noticed a thing that wasn't right in front of him since his wedding."

"I… was thrown from a horse… one weekend in Switzerland," Samantha supplied, shifting nervously as if she may flee the scene. But she had nowhere to go. They both knew it.

"Liar," Sherlock challenged. Even if he hadn't seen her background check, the lie was obvious. "Unless, you were stupid enough to get back on that pony again and again, the pattern of your scars aren't consistent with your story."

"How dare you," Samantha hissed, rising to her feet. Her chair tipped over due to the abrupt movement.

"No, Ms. Watson," said Sherlock. "How dare you not press charges? How dare you, Ms. Watson, to allow that man to find another victim."

He saw the punch coming, but was caught off guard by Samantha putting her full weight of 126 pounds behind it. If she had used her casted left hand, his cheekbone would undoubtedly be broken instead of throbbing rhythmically.

"I am not a victim," Samantha proclaimed, stabbing his chest with her index finger. "I am not your friend, so don't pretend to know me."

She was right. Samantha Watson was no victim, anymore.

"You're the one that wanted to have lunch together," Sherlock reminded, touching his cheek, surprised there wasn't a little blood trickling.

"A mistake, clearly," said Samantha, though she righted her chair and sat down.

"John needs to know." Sherlock eyed the Watson sitting across from him with a small amount of admiration; she knew how to throw a punch.

"No, he doesn't," her chin wobbled, but her voice sounded assured, "and you aren't going to tell him either."

"Sorry, but since we're not friends, I don't owe you my silence." He smiled, actually enjoying the to and fro of their conversation. "John is my friend, however, and I believe, if somebody was smacking Mycroft around, John would tell me."

"Alright! Who's hungry?" Their waiter was back with their food and, judging by his stupid grin and even giddier disposition, the blonde had just acknowledged his existence.

"Not I," said Samantha, looking as if she had indeed lost her appetite. Sherlock had crossed the line. "I'm sorry, but could we get these wrapped up for takeaway."

The waiter eyed Sherlock suspiciously, definitely drawing his own conclusions. He leaned in towards Samantha. "Is this man bothering you?"

Sighing, she lied, "No."

Hesitating, the waiter adjusted the weight of his tray and said, "I'll be back shortly."

Just then, from the depths of the inside of Sherlock's jacket pocket, his phone chirped. He retrieved it easily and read the text. It was from Lestrade, an address all that was written. "Looks like I have a case after all." Lestrade had said something would come up soon, surely to make Sherlock feel better about getting kicked off the Goody/Kashuba investigations, but even Sherlock was pleasantly surprised 'soon' turned out to be only an hour later. "Hopefully, it'll be something good, like a murder."

"You really are an asshole, ya know that," said Samantha.

"So I've been told." Taking out his wallet, he threw down enough money to fit the bill and a little extra, generous of him to do so since they weren't eating and his tea had not arrived either. "Ready to go?"

"What about—"

Donning his coat and scarf, Sherlock strode toward the stairs. "Come along, Watson."

He left her, knowing she would follow cursing his name, but after such a fine example of the lady's capabilities, Samantha was fit to put on her own damn coat.

"Did you just pay for a meal we're leaving behind," she asked him, only just behind, stomping her boots up the steps. He could feel her close proximity, though she wasn't touching him; he could smell her cherry almond body wash.

"I gave that poor sap an opportunity," said Sherlock, not slowing his stride. If the young man was clever, the waiter could take the abandoned food and invite the blonde bartender to take her lunch with him. "Besides, you said you weren't hungry."

Though midday the sky had gone gray and the wind was biting harder. A single snowflake floated down, in a moment of stillness, before Sherlock's eyes and finally landed on the pavement.

Samantha gave up the battle she was having with her coat and held it close to her instead.

This cab ride was accomplished with near perfect silence. Sherlock could see Samantha was very angry with him; her face turned away and her body as far away from him as possible. It was just as well. However, when the cab stopped in front of the Watson's residence, instead of jumping out of the vehicle immediately like he suspected, Samantha, still not looking at him, said,

"Don't tell John."

"Why?"

"It doesn't do anyone any good knowing now, does it? It's in the past. It'd only make him upset," Samantha said, her hand on the handle. "Give me your word."

"Would it be good enough for you if I did?"

"My brother thinks you're a man of honor."

Without another word or waiting for one from Sherlock, Samantha got out of the car and hurried toward the front door, her boots keeping rhythm, pausing briefly to greet John who had just stepped out the home. The door was shut behind her without a second glance.

John climbed in, zipping his coat up to his chin. "So, how did that go? What the hell happened to you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Your sister punched me."

John's eyes widened. "She did that? I would ask why, but I'm sure it's because you were just being yourself."

True enough.

Soon, the duo arrived at their destination, a disheveled flat eight floors up with no lift, cautionary yellow tape marking the place nicely. Chief Inspector Lestrade greeted them just outside the door, but Sherlock moved past him easily, not wanting his introduction or interpretation of the crime he'd come to investigate.

The door was ajar, the jamb showing long splinters jutting out, a blatant sign of forced entry. Slowly, Sherlock eased the red door open as to not disturb the scene behind it. He stepped over the threshold. A drop of blood, as red as the door, lay on the floor. Its ilk led Sherlock to the body. The victim, a tall, slim redheaded female of approximately eighteen years, was spread-eagle over her sofa, a gaping wound in her chest from a single blow. Dried mascara veins ran down her cheeks—she had pled for her life. Dull green eyes stared through him, unseeing. Her lips were caked with dried blood. The victim's feet were bare, fresh scrapes on her right foot—grazed by the door going over it earlier.

Familiar officers were rummaging through cabinets, bookshelves and mail, contaminating potential evidence.

Phillip Anderson, Scotland Yard's poor choice for medical forensic specialist, was examining the wound to his best, if limited, ability. Swabbing for a DNA sample, he said, "Stabbed in the heart—"

"A half inch to the right of the heart," Sherlock corrected. "John, what can you make of it?"

With his sample, Anderson backed away a respectful distance to watch, bumping into a blue and yellow swing made for an infant.

John Watson examined the wound in the victim's chest closely. "It happened this morning." He lifted the woman's hand, looking under the fingernails. "She fought back."

Looking back at the door, Sherlock said, "She expected the attack. She locked the door, but stood there… What, or who, was she guarding?" An idea of just who Ms. Clove had been protecting was forming rapidly.

"Her home," supplied Donavan, indignant with female pride.

A soft, tired cry reached Sherlock's ears.

"The knife punctured her lung," said John, though the fact was quite blatant with the blood on the woman's unmarred lips.

"Who is she," asked Sherlock.

Lestrade answered. "We haven't been able to find any identification, but her neighbors say her name was Kate Clove."

The small voice coughed and then whimpered.

"Was she alone," asked Sherlock, eyeing a fuzzy yellow toy duck nuzzled under one of the victim's foot.

"She was when our guys arrived," said Lestrade.

"Where's the baby," asked Sherlock.

The gray-haired man scratched his head. "I don't know. We have men around asking questions."

Sherlock nodded. "Right. Sorry, why am I here?"

"The murder," Lestrade gestured toward the woman being placed into a black body bag. "I thought it might cheer you up."

"This isn't just a murder," Sherlock said, his clasped behind his back as he paced. "She was at the door when her attacker broke in this flat. Most people knowing somebody was breaking in would hide and call the police. But, instead, she stood her ground. Why would she do that if she wasn't protecting someone?"

"I am not going to say this is Kashuba's doing until I get more evidence," said Lestrade, showing a serious lack in cognitive structures. For a detective, the man could do with some dot-to-dot activities.

"She lives by herself, right," John finally joined in, his bushy brows furrowed in deep thought. "This place isn't too cheap, so—"

"Right!" Sherlock exclaimed. "By the look of it, she works with her hands; her hands were chapped from water and cleanser with dirt under her fingernails from gardening. Do you know of any maids or gardeners that could afford a flat by themselves? Maybe, Lestrade, you think she's an heiress with a meager monthly allowance and a love for horticulture."

Lestrade coughed, straightening a yellow, geometric printed rug that got wrinkled in the scuffle.

"Do you think her attacker was an unsatisfied customer," John asked Sherlock.

"John, unless she found a body in the rose garden or did more than in the bedroom than fluff the pillows, I doubt a customer would go to such extremes," Sherlock said, retracing the drops of blood back to the door. The trail ended at the threshold. "The killer put his weapon inside its sheath before he left." He stepped back inside the residence, crossing the living room. "Ms. Clove was murdered standing in front of her sofa while she pled for mercy. The indentation toward the right side of the wound suggests her sternum is broken. Her attacker was strong and, judging by the angle of the wound, large in stature; a man most likely."

Another sorrowful cry reached Sherlock's ears. "Does anyone else hear that," he asked.

"A Mrs. Hunter across the hall has a little one," said Anderson, his tidbit of information not the least helpful.

The sound was not coming from across the hall or outside the flat for that matter. Ms. Clove's hallway was carpeted in soft blue and crushed by the many pairs of feet that had trekked over it that day, which was really too bad. Sherlock would have liked to have found a useful shoeprint. Opening the first door he came to, Sherlock discovered the loo, decorated in red and gray and smelling like jasmine. The second door revealed a stacked washer and dryer fit snugly in a closet. The third door, the only remained, stood at the end of the hall. Written across the top in black block letters; Live, Laugh, Love. The victim's room had been trashed either by the killer or the handiwork of Scotland Yard's top cops. The pristine condition Sherlock had found the bathroom and kitchen told him Kate Clove was compulsively neat.

A white cradle stood between a queen-sized bed and the wall, papered in a yellow and red flowered print. It was empty except for a purple scarf draped over the edge. One the other side of the room, by an oak chest of drawers, was another door with slats through the top and bottom. Pushing this door open, Sherlock walked inside the wardrobe, racks of clothes and shelves of shoes and various boxes on his right and left. He could smell ammonia.

A desperate cry came from the corner of the large closet. The floor clear, Sherlock carefully took down a red suitcase, kept ajar by a wadded up jumper stuck in the corner, and set it on the floor.

Flipping it open, Sherlock stared at the weak infant inside it and got another whiff of ammonia; the poor thing had likely been in a soiled nappy for hours. The little one's blue eyes blinked. Its mouth moved, but no sound came out this time.

Seeing the baby's clothes and blanket soaked through, Sherlock chose to not to pick it up but to pick up the suitcase and all, carrying it back to the living room and Chief Inspector Lestrade.

Seeing Sherlock's smug grin, Lestrade asked, "What did you find?"

"The motive."


End file.
